by JoAnn Ross
42
After Thanksgiving dinner at the Douchett home, Claire locked herself away in her studio and, except for attending Matt’s games, spent most of her waking hours sketching and blowing the glass pieces for her exhibition.
Despite a less than encouraging beginning, since her visit to the aquarium, the previously temperamental glass had come alive, singing in a way she’d never experienced before. So much so that, after waking up to see what appeared to be a glistening of ice crystals on the steely water outside her windows, she decided, although she’d already created what she’d thought would be her final piece, to try one more.
The process was hot, laborious, and prone to failure, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her.
“The only easy day was yesterday,” she said, quoting the SEAL saying Dillon had the team repeat before every game.
She began by swirling the glass from the crucible onto her blowpipe. As long as she’d been working with molten glass, she found the fact that the mere wind of her breath could create such beauty almost miraculous. Since the slightest change in breath at the crucial moment could be the difference between perfection and another piece tossed into the scrap bucket, she quickly shaped, reheated, then shaped some more.
When she was satisfied, she began rolling the piece on her marver, coaxing it into the form that would begin its final transformation as she layered on frit—bits of crushed colored glass—in swirling shades of deep smoke blue, steel blue, and opal white designed to resemble the storm-tossed, white-capped winter sea churning outside her windows.
“Good,” she murmured as she twirled the glass downward, then suddenly stopped, causing the edges to ripple like the tops of waves. “But not quite finished.”
A ghiaccio was a Venitian technique popular in the sixteenth century that she’d achieved only a few times. But as heady creativity surged through Claire’s veins, intent as she was on her creation, an earthquake could have split open the floor beneath her sneaker-clad feet and she wouldn’t have noticed.
This time she drew in a deep breath. Then she plunged the multihued bowl into cold water, causing a sudden, fine crackling of the surface. Thus, the definition of the word: ice.
Then—and this was the trickiest part—she quickly returned to her blowpipe and blew more clear glass she used to layer over the crackled ice.
As she carried the bowl to the annealer to slowly cool, she found herself wishing she had someone to share her success with.
“Sometimes,” she said to herself as she closed the oven door, “total independence can suck.”
43
Phoebe was sitting on the couch, knitting a square for Project Linus—a charity that made blankets for sick and needy children that Sax’s grandmother had gotten nearly every woman in town involved in—when the doorbell rang. Sunny, her and Ethan’s adopted golden retriever, rose from where she’d been snoozing on the rug to accompany her to the door.
When Phoebe looked through the peephole and saw who was standing on the other side of the door, her stomach clenched.
“It’s Charity,” she told Ethan as he came over from the kitchen area, where he’d begun preparing dinner. Although she’d assured him that she was perfectly capable, he’d insisted, when she’d arrived home from cooking for the Lavender Hill Farm restaurant lunch crowd, that she spend the rest of the day off her feet and relaxing.
“Well, you’d better let her in.” Although his voice was typically calm, she could see the shared worry in his eyes.
“I bring more tidings of good news,” Charity said as she entered the apartment, pausing momentarily to pat the welcoming dog’s head. “And an early Christmas present—the Fletchers dropped the suit.”
“What?” Phoebe turned to Ethan, who looked as surprised as she felt. “That fast? How?”
“It seems your former father-in-law has been under investigation for something to do with natural gas licenses. I didn’t really follow all of it, but it appears that bribery might have been involved. Along with extortion.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” Phoebe said.
“Like father, like son,” Ethan muttered.
“There’s more. It appears Peter wasn’t his only child.”
“What?” All right, that came as a surprise.
“Apparently he’s been spending a lot of time in Washington, DC.”
“He always did. That’s where the lobbyists are.”
“True. Including one particular one who, it seems, he’s been having an affair with for the past eight years.”
“No!” Phoebe’s surge of emotion caused her child to do a backflip. Sitting back down on the couch, she pressed her hands against her stomach. Revealing a strong sensitivity to emotion, Sunny placed her large, furry head in Phoebe’s lap, as if to comfort her. “Are you saying he has a secret child with this woman?” Phoebe asked as she stroked the golden retriever.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And he’s been siphoning money to pay for her living expenses in a pricey Georgetown home. Plus private school for his daughter. Also some really to-die-for vacation trips to the Caribbean, Mexico, and Europe, including a birthday trip for the little girl to Disneyland Paris this past August.
“Which gets particularly sticky when you consider that Fletcher Gas and Oil went public a decade ago. So, by paying the woman consulting fees averaging in the seven figures every year for eight years to keep her quiet when she hasn’t done a lick of work for the company, it appears he’s been embezzling from shareholders.”
“Oh, wow.” For a fleeting moment Phoebe almost felt sorry for her former mother-in-law. Then she reminded herself that the woman had been trying to steal her child.
“I do feel sorry for that little girl,” she murmured. “Bad enough that her father’s never acknowledged her publicly. But her mother must not be the most nurturing parent, either, to use her daughter as a bargaining and blackmail chip.”
“That part sucks,” Charity agreed.
“Well, it certainly doesn’t make the guy an ideal father in the eyes of any court,” Ethan said.
“That is true. My stepfather learned this from an attorney friend who’s familiar with the case. It hasn’t gone public yet. But it’s about to break, and I suspect, Phoebe, that your former father-in-law might find himself going to federal prison.”
“Too bad it’ll probably be one of those country club ones for the rich one percent,” Ethan muttered.
“Unfortunately, you’re probably right,” Charity agreed. “But a prison’s still a prison. He’s going to lose his freedom, undoubtedly the chairmanship of his own company, and his reputation. Not to mention all his business and political friends, who won’t want to be connected with him in any way.
“Unsurprisingly, his attorney realized that there’s no way he can win a custody battle while being under threat of incarceration for several federal crimes. Especially when you already factor in his son’s actions toward you and Ethan. So they had no choice but to drop the suit. Which they would have lost, but now you won’t have to go through all that stress of depositions and perhaps even court appearances.”
“Wow,” Phoebe repeated, her head spinning. “I can’t imagine how furious Peter’s mother must be.”
“Like the evil queen in Disney’s Snow White, just before the boulder falls on her,” Ethan guessed.
“That’s probably a good analogy,” Charity said.
“She’s always enjoyed playing society queen bee,” Phoebe said. “It’s how she’s defined herself.”
“Well, that’s going to be a bit difficult with the king behind bars,” Charity said dryly.
Phoebe knew that this would go down as one of the most amazing days of her life. As she sat there with a woman who’d become her friend and the man she loved with every fiber of her being, and her sweet new dog, who’d fit so perfectly into her life, she looked around her lovely apartment again and thought of how far she’d come since she was that terrified, shattered runaway wife who
’d arrived on the doorstep of Haven House.
“I love this apartment,” she said.
“You’ve done a great job with it,” Charity said.
“I have. Thanks to all of you who chipped in to help furnish it. And I’ll definitely keep and cherish every gift. But”—she held out her hand to Ethan—“I think it’s time for me to go home. To our farm.”
44
Although the Art on the River gallery was packed to the rafters, Claire knew the moment Dillon entered. He stood at the edge of the main room, watching her with an unblinking male intensity that set every nerve ending in her body to jangling.
Don’t look at him!
Although it took every bit of concentration she could muster to laugh at some obscure arty joke—revolving around the idea of Van Gogh being reduced to cranking out TV beer commercials to pay for reconstructive surgery on his ear—while she was being bombarded with testosterone bombs, she was all too aware of him headed her way.
But before he could reach her, a redhead specializing in steampunk wall murals stepped in front of him, deftly stopping his progress.
She was wearing a black-and-red corset adorned with black ostrich feathers, a layered black ruffled skirt that barely covered the essentials, black lace stockings attached to the corset with elastic straps, and stiletto-heeled, over-the-knee leather boots. She’d accessorized the look with a black derby and attached illusion veil, a gun belt worn low on her hips, black lace fingerless gloves, and a lot of ink, including a dirigible that floated across her breasts.
Claire recognized that maddeningly sexy smile he exchanged with the artist. Watched as the woman reached into her generous cleavage—made even more impressive by the uplift of the corset and that airship tattoo—and handed him a small white card. That she was offering Dillon something was obvious. Claire would bet it wasn’t a mural.
“Congratulations,” he said when he finally reached her. “Your show appears to be a grand success.”
“It’s going well.”
Better than well.
She’d nearly sold out. Including the green flash piece, which she’d purposefully priced high because, if she were to be perfectly honest, once it was done, she hadn’t really wanted to sell it. Unlike a piece of jewelry, the mercurial temperament of glass made it impossible to create exact duplicates of any piece. However, since she needed the money for the renovations she was planning with Lucas Chaffee’s guidance, she didn’t really have any choice but to put it up for sale.
“You’ve drawn quite an eclectic crowd.”
“Portland’s art community is nothing if not colorful,” she agreed.
“I know I’ve been away from the States a lot, so I haven’t exactly kept up with popular culture, but is that woman over there actually wearing a ray gun in her holster?”
“It’s steampunk. According to Matt, who reads some of the books, apparently it borrows from elements of science fiction like H. G. Wells and Jules Verne and has something to do with steam power in an alternate history or a postapocalyptic period. But I’m certainly no expert, so don’t quote me.”
“I wouldn’t even try.”
“I’m sure that woman who gave you her card could explain it in much more detail.”
“She probably could. But I’d much rather talk with you… . Can I buy you a drink?”
“It’s an open bar. Drinks are free.”
“Even better.”
Those dimples deepened as he smiled down at her. He appeared larger than she remembered him. Almost overpowering. He was wearing black jeans, a black cashmere sweater, and a black leather bomber jacket that gave him a dangerous look.
“I’m not here to play. I’m supposed to be working.”
He rocked back on his heels and glanced around the white pillars holding her sea-swept glass collection. “From all the red dots on the tags next to your pieces, I’d say you can risk taking a couple minutes for a break.”
He put his hand on her back and began herding her toward the bar that had been set up next to a Christmas tree that soared to the open loft ceiling.
“I don’t remember saying yes,” she said.
“You didn’t say no,” he countered. “And I did drive all the way up here. Surely you wouldn’t be so cruel as to make me go back to Shelter Bay without at least having one drink with me?”
“Which brings up a question. What are you doing here?”
“Well, I could make up some excuse, like I had a meeting with Shelter Bay High’s Nike rep, but that’d be a lie. I came up to see you. And maybe offer some moral support, which you don’t appear to need.”
Not sure how to respond, she didn’t say anything right away.
“Plus, there’s another reason.”
“And that would be?” she asked him.
“I wanted some time alone with you. Away from all the prying eyes of everyone in town.”
She looked around. “This is hardly a private venue.”
“True. Though it is anonymous since the only person in the place I know is you. But it’s also why I booked a room at the hotel.”
“My hotel?”
“I figured that would be more convenient than staying in one across town. It’ll make it easier to walk you to your door after our date.”
“That’s more than a little chauvinistic.”
“You want to walk me to my door? Although it might dent some less confident guy’s male ego, I’m down with that… .
“What would you like to drink?”
What she would have liked was for him to get back in his Jeep and return to Shelter Bay, where he belonged. She didn’t want him here in Portland, let alone staying at her hotel. He was too hot. Too male. Too damn tempting.
“I’ll have a champagne cocktail, please,” she said to the bartender.
“Dark beer for me,” Dillon said.
Speaking of chauvinism…
Instead of handing her fluted glass directly to her, the bartender gave it to Dillon, who passed it on. As their fingers touched, she felt a jolt of emotion so strong it shook her, but when she risked a glance upward to see if he’d been similarly affected, his friendly expression gave nothing away.
“Nice tree,” he said, though he wasn’t looking at it, but at her. The tree in question was black, with black-and-white lights, white satin bows, and clear glass ornaments.
“It’s supposed to represent a white-tie affair.”
“Festive.” His tone said otherwise. And although she could appreciate the tree as an artistic statement, she’d have to admit that when it came to Christmas, she was definitely a traditionalist.
As he continued to look at her, long and deep, Claire took a sip of the seasonal red cocktail and, as she tasted the tang of cranberry and citrusy Cointreau, willed both her mind and her body to calm. “I know I’ve been distracted lately, but I believe I would remember you asking me out on a date.”
“Would you have said yes if I had?”
“No.”
“I figured as much. Which is why I decided just to take matters into my own hands. And speaking of which, I’d really like to get my hands on you, Claire. All over.”
She glanced over at the bartender, who was doing his best to hide a grin and failing.
Having watched Dillon pacing the sidelines of that basketball game, and listening to what little Matt had shared about practices, Claire realized that he might be the most determined individual she’d ever met. Which meant that as much as she didn’t want to have this conversation, she wasn’t going to be able to continue to ignore it.
Taking his arm, she practically dragged him a few feet away, putting the black-and-white tuxedo tree between them and the eavesdropping bartender.
“Okay, that hands-on thing?” she said. “I know the feeling.”
“Well, now.” He rocked back on his heels. “That’s a surprise. Oh, not that you’ve been thinking about it, same as I’ve been. But that you’d admit it.”
“I’m not the kind of a woman who p
lays coy, Dillon. I’ll admit I’m attracted.”
“That’s a start… . You’ve changed your scent.”
“What?” The sensible, sane, reasonable explanation as to why an affair was impossible momentarily fled her mind.
“You usually smell like a tropical vacation. Tonight you’re walking on the dangerous, just a little wild side.”
“You should probably know that I’m the furthest thing from dangerous. I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”
He laughed at that. “Sweetheart, I’ve dealt with IEDs less dangerous than you.”
“I’m also not impulsive.”
“Yet you packed up and moved to Oregon.”
“That’s different. I was protecting my son. Who,” she said firmly, “has to be my main priority.”
He lifted his beer bottle. “As he should be.”
She’d been sexually impetuous once in her life. That had resulted in her son, which she’d never regret. But she’d always sworn she’d never make that mistake again. Even when she was so, so tempted.
“We’ve been through this, Dillon. It’s unethical for you to be dating the mother of one of your players.”
“So you keep saying.” He tipped the bottle back and took a long swallow of the beer. “Which, I have to tell you, kind of hurts my feelings.”
“Surely I’m not the first woman to turn you down.”
“No. But you’re the first who’s questioned my integrity.”
“Me?” It was her turn to take a long drink. “How on earth did I do that?”
“You’re suggesting that if we went out, and things heated up, I’d actually risk another player’s chances for college by giving Matt more playing time. Simply because I was sleeping with his mother.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Not in those words. But you’re implying it.”
“I honestly don’t believe you’d play favorites. But that doesn’t mean that others, especially parents of some of the seniors, like Mr. and Mrs. Martin, wouldn’t think it.”